Page 32 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Her laughter tumbles out uncontained as she stands. “TMI, Greyson Finch. Wait here, I’ll be right back with some tea.”
I’d love to go inside with her. Get cozy on the couch, discover the flavor of her lips. But I can’t move too fast with this one. I know she’ll run.
“You can call me Grey, remember?”
“Is that what yourfriendscall you?” Emerson teases, retrieving her sandals so she can carry them inside. Her emphasis on the word ‘friends’ is puzzling, but I shake it off.
“I don’t have many friends, so, no.”
“Well, I like ‘Greyson’ better, anyway,” she admits, biting her lower lip.
“You can call me whatever you like, Feather.” Rising from the swing, I reach out, impulsively pulling her lip free of her teeth. I lightly rub the tiny mark left behind in the plump softness with the pad of my thumb. My gaze holds hers. “I love the sound of my name on your lips.”
To my surprise, she doesn’t draw back from my touch. Her eyes, however, widened at the use of the nickname I’ve given her.
“You can call me E.J.,” she says softly. “My friends do.”
“I don’t care what your friends call you. You are a feather to me and a feather you shall stay.”
She gifts me with a wide smile.
I want to carry it home in my back pocket.
* * *
We talk for hours.About everything and nothing. Eventually, we move to the loveseat at the other end of the porch. It’s padded and more comfortable than the slatted planks of the swing. It’s nearly two a.m. before we say goodbye. I ask if she’ll join me for dinner at my house the following Saturday night. She refuses.
I see the indecision on her face before she says no. What I don’t understand is where the reluctance comes from. Obviously, she feels the same crazy lightning bolts I do, so why fight it? Was she burned in the past? Has some asshole hurt her so badly she can’t trust anyone? Of course, she’d be wise not to trust me, but that’s beside the point.
I’m an X factor—gone in a matter of months— and she won’t have to worry about me breaking her heart. This is just a diversion we can both enjoy. If she gives me the opportunity, I’ll show her just how pleasurable it can be. I’ll take care of her every need.
I’m gonna rock her world. The many ways I’ll go about it make me smile.
I do wring a promise to do something fun together the following week. A date of some sorts that has my hands sweating. I haven’t been on a date in years. I allow her the choice of what we do and she seems reluctantly pleased.
“You won’t forget?” she asks as I slide into the driver’s seat of the Lexus.
“I won’t,” I assure her. “Tuesday afternoon. Meet you here at precisely four o’ clock.”
“Yes. And wear something comfortable. You have shorts, right? Wear those. Not black, ripped up, rockstar jeans.”
I like her teasing me. It makes the broody, dark side of me disappear for a little while. “Swap the sex god, dangerous rocker look for preppy, clueless, tourist look. Gotcha.”
Emerson grins, handing me the book I almost left behind on her porch.
I’m halfway home before I realize that while Emerson loaned me a novel, one she obviously treasures, I didn’t even get a damned kiss goodnight.
